


Five Times Arthur Surprised Eames and One Time He Didn’t

by blue_jack



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_jack/pseuds/blue_jack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d always found it amusing when Arthur would look at him as if he were driving him crazy, like he was two seconds away from losing control and all it would take would be one more word or look from Eames . . . He wasn’t quite sure he enjoyed feeling on the opposite end of things, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Arthur Surprised Eames and One Time He Didn’t

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】五次Arthur让Eames出乎意料和一次他没有 by blue_jack](https://archiveofourown.org/works/652563) by [captbeeefheart (CaptBeeefheart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptBeeefheart/pseuds/captbeeefheart)



**One: First Times are the Worst**

The first time Eames met Arthur, he took one look at him and wrote him off as not worth the trouble. He didn’t doubt that Arthur was talented. Dom and Mal weren’t the type of people to work with someone who couldn’t pull his own weight. Eames’ suspicion was that Arthur was too talented, especially for someone who looked barely legal, and consequently, puffed up on himself and undoubtedly insufferable as so many overly gifted people were as a result of growing up surrounded by people who assured them of their brilliance every day.

The job seemed to prove him right. It didn’t matter what kind of question anyone on the team had, Arthur always had the answer, lecturing instead of communicating, every word dripping condescension. And yes, that was part of the job of a point man, to consider and plan for all contingencies, but that didn’t stop Eames from conveniently needing to go to the loo or step outside for a smoke every time Arthur opened his mouth to speak.

It didn’t help that Arthur would _not_ crack a smile, even when the rest of the group was laughing over some joke or anecdote. It was always business with Arthur, and as a result, it was one of the most tedious jobs of Eames’ career. It got so Eames started needling him just to get a rise—any kind of reaction was better than that stoic blankness—although he failed more than he succeeded, and the distraction could hardly be called even that. No matter that the job went perfectly, one of the easiest extractions he’d ever participated in, Eames decided then and there that he was never working with Arthur again. He’d die of boredom before the projections ever got to him.

So it was with much surprise that Eames met Arthur again for a second time at the end of that same contract. He’d always had a soft spot for Mal—who didn’t—and when she’d invited him out with the team for drinks to celebrate, he hadn’t been able to refuse, even knowing Arthur would be present with his too serious expressions and forbidding frowns.

And Arthur was there. But it wasn’t the Arthur he’d come to know over the past three days. This Arthur didn’t wear his hair slicked back as if one stray hair would be the deciding factor between success and failure. This Arthur was dressed in holey jeans and a T-shirt with a Pearl Jam logo on it instead of his carefully pressed suits and brightly polished shoes. This Arthur stood without the normal confident demeanor, body language awkward and a trifle shy. This Arthur smiled, dimples flashing, laughed and interacted with some stranger at the bar and was _alive_ in a way he hadn’t been in days prior.

“What the sodding hell?” Eames murmured, because he prided himself on being able to read people, but he had never imagined something like this.

“His first professional job,” Mal whispered proudly. “He was so nervous, spent hours preparing until Dom and I had to force him to go to sleep. He did very well, no?”

He didn’t bother to answer considering how obvious the truth was. “Where did you find him?” he asked instead, unable to tear his eyes away from the subject of their conversation, who kept taking sips of his drink as if to give himself time to think of what to say next.

“Dom has some contacts within the military. It took a while, but Arthur could not resist us forever.” The fondness in her voice was apparent.

Military. It would explain the suits at the very least. After a few years spending virtually every day of his life surrounded by structure and discipline, adjusting to the civilian world could be something of a culture shock. Suits, however, were just another type of uniform, and Arthur had probably found comfort in their inherent sameness.

“I see,” he said, throwing everything he thought he already knew about Arthur right out the window in order to start again. He’d never been one to rely on first impressions anyway. “Well, I think introductions are in order, don’t you?”

**Two: “I’m Batman.”**

Eames felt no small amount of glee at being given carte blanche to walk around Arthur’s apartment. However, Arthur had _invited him in_ —admittedly because he had a disk he needed to give Eames before he left town that evening—but nonetheless, it counted. And even though Arthur had been forced to run off minutes later after a phone call where Eames had distinctly overheard the words “parakeet” and “tied to the fan” to the melodious accompaniment of squawking in the background—and Eames could not wait to hear the details when he got back—Arthur hadn’t rescinded the offer, so what else was he to do when his host was away but explore?

And while few would believe it of him, Eames considered himself a gentleman, which was why he waited a full minute before wandering into the bedroom. That and perhaps to make sure Arthur wasn’t planning to suddenly come back.

Unfortunately, there was nothing scandalous to find. Which wasn’t shocking so much as disappointing. And, of course, as long as one discounted the weapons taped to the underside of a few drawers and the wad of cash and what looked like a fake ID he found encased in Ziploc bags within the tank of the toilet. Not even a trashy magazine or a risqué toy—Eames would have imagined Arthur owned at least a pair of handcuffs, didn’t everyone after all?—although the lube and condoms implied that Arthur at least had a sex life, albeit a dull one.

He sighed, shaking his head sadly before eyeing the two overflowing bookcases in the room. Eames enjoyed literature, had once spent an entire job discussing Shakespeare’s collected works with a retired English professor, but unlike Arthur, he knew when to—

Was that a comic book? In a protective plastic sleeve? Surely not.

But it _was_ a comic book. Eames abandoned the bookcases, more interested in what Arthur loved than what he read. There were _hundreds_ of comic books as a matter of fact—looking pristine in their plastic coverings and supported by white back boards—within boxes that Eames had automatically assumed contained information Arthur liked to keep on hand for reference but in actually contained scantily clad men and women (except for the ones that were covered in extremely form-fitting spandex, so tight they might as well be starkers) performing heroic and unbelievable feats of derring-do.

There were series that Arthur had apparently given up on and other series that spanned multiple boxes with placeholders to mark issues Arthur still needed to obtain. There were classics like _Batman_ and _Superman_ , and obviously newer titles from publishers Eames had never heard of. And there were even more boxes in Arthur’s closet, neatly wedged in between his ties and his shoes so that Arthur passed by them every day as he got dressed.

This couldn’t be Arthur’s only home. They all knew better than to settle down permanent roots; too many things could go wrong and sometimes they did. Just from his quick survey, Eames could tell that there’d only been splashes of Arthur’s personality around the apartment, nothing that couldn’t be left behind without a moment’s notice. Except for the comic books. And he wondered how many more boxes were stored in other little hidey-holes just like this.

Eames carefully pushed the last lid down, smiling softly. He made sure to leave the boxes the way he’d found them, although he wasn’t so careful with the evidence from the rest of his snooping. Arthur would be back any second, and while he wouldn’t believe that Eames hadn’t looked around at all, Eames didn’t want him to know Eames had discovered his secret. There was just something appealing about someone like Arthur who lived in shades of grey still wanting to believe in super heroes and the clear-cut difference between right and wrong.

**Three: My, What Big Muscles You Have**

Eames knew that Arthur was more than capable of taking care of himself, had seen him take out a room of projections without breaking a sweat. But dreaming wasn’t real life.

The fact was that projections were much easier to fight than one would expect. Guns were always dangerous because anyone could figure how to aim and fire. But projections didn’t know anything the dreamer didn’t—although it could seem like it at times since the subconscious retained information one might not have been aware of hearing—so when it came down to hand to hand fighting, a person could watch as many action movies as he wanted, but he wasn’t going to become a Kung Fu Grand Master and would always lose to someone with actual training (a militarized mind was different, but then, it had been taught to be). And because all the projections were created from the mind of one person, a man like Arthur could exploit that easily.

If Arthur were in a roomful of projections and took one of them by surprise, he effectively took _all_ of them by surprise, because they all inherently reacted the same way and needed the same amount of time to process something new. Add to that Arthur’s combat training and his experience in the dream world, and he was nigh impossible to beat.

Real life, however, was another matter. Fighting two people meant facing two individual minds, two fighting styles, and in this case, two men who were taller and larger than their intended victim. And unlike in dreams, there were no gravity-defying or paradox-based tricks that Arthur could employ to escape.

Not that it apparently mattered. When Eames had first realized that was Arthur at the end of the alley, he’d started running in order to reach him in time, but he was walking by the end.

Arthur was a dirty fighter, aiming for nerve clusters, going for the eyes, and generally trying to achieve the most amount of damage in the shortest amount of time. Even as Eames watched, he ducked beneath one swing, no wasted motions, and shifted all his weight forward, blocking another blow with his forearm while grabbing his opponent by the bits, twisting his wrist as he turned and stepped out, catching the other guy in the throat with the side of his hand. That one staggered back, falling to his knees as he scrabbled at his throat, and the first one joined him soon afterward, rolling onto his side, whining shrilly with his hands pathetically between his legs.

Arthur’s eyes flickered up to meet Eames’, giving him a nod of acknowledgement even as he wiped his palm against his slacks in distaste.

Eames hadn’t thought he’d need to ride to Arthur’s rescue by any means, but help? He stared at Arthur, who was adjusting his sleeves and smoothing down the lines of his jacket, and Eames found himself more than a wee bit aroused.

“Friends of yours, Arthur?” He casually kicked one of them as he passed by, finding the answering grunt rather gratifying.

“They work for an acquaintance of mine. Evidently, I am in the middle of a disagreement with him that I was unaware of.” He frowned at a streak of dirt on his leg and brushed at it lightly.

“And this doesn’t worry you?”

“Hardly.” He finished tidying himself as best he could, eyeing the men thoughtfully.

“Is that why you were so gentle with them?” Eames found himself fixated on the collar of Arthur’s shirt, which, unbeknownst to Arthur, was sticking up slightly. It was rather charming, in a faintly deranged and unkempt sort of way.

“You know how I feel about local authorities. Besides, I try to make a habit of going around middle men when possible.”

“I can, uh, help if you’d like?” he asked, wanting to take it back immediately thereafter, because he wasn’t quite sure what he was offering, and from the look Arthur gave him, eyebrow cocked up, all searching and intense, the other man was aware of it. Eames glanced away, trying to remember why he avoided chatting up colleagues, why he’d specifically avoided ever acting on his attraction to Arthur when those first reasons had never been enough.

“No,” Arthur said at last, and maybe it was Eames’ imagination that he looked almost regretful. “Thank you though. I think I have the situation under control.”

“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word and wondering if it were disappointment or relief he felt just then. “I rather think you do.”

**Four: Play that Funky Music, White Boy**

Oh, fuck. What in the—?

How was—?

What was this, what was Arthur—?

What was he _doing_?

And yes, it was rather clear on the one hand what exactly he was doing, because it was hard to miss Arthur on stage dressed in tight leather pants and a T-shirt that’s seen better days, singing—fuck only knows what because for the life of him, Eames couldn’t get beyond the leather pants—and gyrating, his hands flying over the strings of an electric guitar, his hair in complete disarray. But on the other hand, it wasn’t—

There had to be some sort of disconnect between Eames’ eyes and his brain because none of it made any bloody sense.

Arthur. Dancing.

The two words didn’t even belong in the same sentence together let alone the same stage.

And he knew he was in a dream, remembered slipping the IV into his arm, remembered helping to plan the scene at a club because the mark, one Julia McAllister, was something of a wild child, spending her father’s money and having never held a job in the twenty four years of her life, remembered tailing her current boyfriend . . . but he didn’t remember any of _this_.

Admittedly, his was the only PASIV connection that had been faulty, so he hadn’t made it down with everyone else—and he’d been cursing that fact, remembering overhearing Julia threaten to break up with the wanker if he was late one more time—but still. This was just surreal.

“I never knew Arthur had it in him,” Ariadne said as she came up next to him, and he could tell from her voice that she was as gobsmacked as he. “Did you know? Tell me I’m not the only one who didn’t know!”

Eames couldn’t answer, because Arthur chose that moment to swing his guitar onto his back and Moonwalk around the stage as smoothly as the King of Pop himself, and the audience went wild, clapping and screaming as they rose to their feet.

Eames may have let out his own little gasp somewhere in there, but thankfully, it was lost in the din of the crowd.

“Oh my—did someone just throw their underwear on the stage?” Ariadne squeaked, and indeed, Eames could see something pink and frilly near Arthur’s feet. Arthur—prim, proper Arthur whom Eames had never seen in short sleeves let alone anything more revealing—laughed and responded by lowering his guitar and taking off his shirt, throwing it right back into the throng of people.

He needed to sit down.

“What is he _doing_?” she asked, scandalized and laughing, covering her face with her hands but leaving enough room between her fingers to stare onstage. “What—I feel all dirty just watching!”

Eames couldn’t particularly agree. He was feeling something, but dirty wasn’t—well, dirty might be a part of it. Arthur was quite fit after all. Quite fit. And wearing leather pants. Tight, tight leather pants. But mostly it was—how did Arthur keep surprising him? He kept thinking he knew everything there was to know about him, but then Arthur would do something that would force him to reevaluate. He was distracting, maddening, and Eames didn’t—

He’d always found it amusing when Arthur would look at him as if he were driving him crazy, like he was two seconds away from losing control and all it would take would be one more word or look from Eames . . .

He wasn’t quite sure he enjoyed feeling on the opposite end of things, however.

But then again, Arthur made him feel that way almost every time they met, so maybe he did, maybe he always had.

“He said he was going to create a diversion, but I don’t know, I thought he’d blow something up or—”

“Fuck!” Eames hopped off of his barstool, searching for and finally finding Julia, dancing along with all the rest, and he made his way over, knowing Ariadne would understand. He forced himself to look away from Arthur and keep looking away. He had a job to do. But . . .

After it was all over, Eames stared up at the ceiling of his hotel room. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever gotten one off thinking about Arthur. But it was the first time he’d come to the conclusion that it wasn’t enough.

**Five: My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard**

Eames had a plan. It was a good plan, one that involved wooing Arthur in slow stages, giving him time to get used to the idea of having Eames around in a more than purely professional capacity. He’d come up with arguments—many, many arguments—why conducting a relationship with someone in the industry would not necessarily be A Bad Idea, why mixing business with pleasure could have several enjoyable benefits, and why their lifestyles did not have to interfere with an affair (their five year anniversary would be soon enough to reveal he’d never considered it _just_ an affair).

Arthur had always been the researcher, but Eames liked the planning, liked having some sort of control of a situation, and although he wouldn’t bet on Arthur succumbing to his wiles right away, he didn’t think he’d imagined all the looks that had passed between them, and he was confident . . . hopeful . . . that Arthur would come around to his way of thinking given enough time.

He waited until the next extraction, because it wouldn’t do to scare Arthur off by tracking him down in between jobs—the last time he’d done that, Arthur had ended up with a bullet in his arm, and he didn’t really want to remind him of that little mishap—and waited and waited and wanked more frequently than was probably healthy, but desperate times and all that.

He honestly didn’t know why he was so nervous. It wasn’t even that he thought Arthur would turn him down—Eames had the philosophy of a used car salesman: “yes” was I should have asked for more, “maybe” was really a yes, and “no” was a yes just waiting to happen—but six years. Six years of circling around each other, and the thought of that disappearing all at once was a trifle disconcerting.

It didn't stop him from showing up early the first day of the job in order to catch Arthur alone, because in that at least, Arthur was comforting in his predictability. He brought a coffee prepared just the way Arthur preferred, as well as some of those cinnamon buns that Arthur insisted were a breakfast food instead of dessert. It wasn't the first time Eames had gotten him something to eat, and as before, it was a means of putting Arthur in a good mood, although at least this time it wasn't because he needed a favor. Not in the strictest sense anyways.

"Lovely to see you as always, Arthur," he said, setting the cup and pastries down, nudging a few papers to the side so he could perch on the corner of the desk.

"What do you want?" Arthur asked, typing away at his laptop, although he'd looked up when Eames had first walked through the door, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Is that any way to speak to the man who brought you caffeine and sugar?" He could feel himself calming down, settling into their normal patterns. This was easy. This he could do.

"You show up early with food—and not just any food but what smells like cinnamon buns from that shop on 7th no less—and coffee. I just want to know what I'm exchanging my soul for, Mr. Eames."

"You and your melodrama," he teased, wiping his hands on his pants. "What makes you think I have any ulterior motives?"

"While I don't kid myself and assume that I know you better than everyone else," Arthur began, turning in his chair and facing Eames at last, "I do believe that I know you better than most, and I . . ."

"What?" Eames asked when Arthur trailed off, blinking up at him, a tiny furrow appearing between his eyebrows. He could feel his shoulders tighten with each passing second Arthur was quiet, and it made him panicked, defensive, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I didn't eat any of your sodding pastries, if that's what you're thinking—"

“Did you need something from me, Eames?”

What the fuck was he supposed to say to that when Arthur was acting so oddly, looking at him like he already knew what he was going to say?

He tried to pull himself together. He was good at this type of thing, could play any kind of part, and it was just Arthur, Arthur with his immaculate clothes and sharp eyes, with his sly humor that no one understood because they couldn’t believe he would crack any kind of joke, Arthur who still wanted to believe in saving the day (or maybe Eames was wrong, maybe Arthur just had hopes for world domination and hadn’t shared his nefarious schemes with him yet), Arthur who could play a guitar like an extension of himself and didn’t shy from a bit of exhibitionism.

“Always so suspicious. My hotel is right across the street from the pastry shop, and you have a tendency to skip far too many meals when you're caught up in the job. I wouldn't want you to make a mistake just because you're faint from hunger,” he said, making his smile patronizing and obnoxious, because it was easier that way, and he needed a second to think.

And Arthur smiled back, eyes crinkling at the corners and dimples flashing, although his voice was solemn as he said, “I tend to skip dinner more than breakfast.”

Which was how Eames found himself having dinner with Arthur later that night. And while he wanted to pretend the whole thing had been his idea, it seemed the situation had somehow gotten out of his control, a feeling that only intensified every time he caught Arthur looking at him like the cat that had gotten into the cream.

Still, he couldn’t very well complain, not when dinner lasted over three hours, and especially not when he was being backed into Arthur’s hotel room, nearly tripping over his own feet as they yanked at each other’s clothes.

In most of Eames’ fantasies—and he’d had more than his fair share—it’d almost always been him leading during sex. Not because he didn’t think Arthur wanted to top, but because there had been so many things he wanted to do, wanted to touch, to taste, and it was as if his mind didn’t have the room to picture anything else. Or maybe he’d just known that the reality of Arthur being the one to push him down onto the bed—he didn’t ask, flowed over Eames and surrounded him until there was nothing to do but be swept away—was beyond even his powers of imagination. Because reality was Arthur’s hands and the way they gripped him, just shy of too hard until it was Eames who was leaving bruises with the force of his hold as he tried to drag Arthur closer; his mouth, hot and teasing, that never sucked long or hard enough to leave a mark even when Eames told him to; his body, held low over Eames’ instead of pressing him into the bed, each accidental contact of their skin eliciting a poorly-suppressed shiver.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do next time,” Arthur promised as if hearing his thoughts, the soft light in his eyes at odds with the words coming from his mouth and the wicked things his fingers were doing deep inside Eames.

“Too right you will,” Eames gasped, his back arching completely off the bed as Arthur’s tongue replaced his fingers, and he wondered faintly how insufferable Arthur would be if he demanded a repeat performance.

**And One: I Shot the Sheriff**

“He needs more time.”

“There isn’t any more time! We have to get out of here—”

“Cobb can get the—”

“Fuck Cobb, and fuck the damn job, Arthur!” They both heard the gunfire then—how soon before the projections found them? A minute? Maybe less?—and Arthur’s mouth thinned.

They’d all known the risks of going inside the mind of someone with PTSD, but the reality couldn’t compare. Some of the things they’d seen on the streets—the piles of eviscerated bodies, the blood that ran red and thick everywhere they turned—were going to haunt Eames for the rest of his life.

Arthur dragged his hand through his hair, his eyes flickering around the room as he thought. “As soon as I find him, I’ll—”

“You won’t make it two blocks before they get you! Cobb can—”

“It’s his first job since Inception! You’ve seen what they’re doing to the other projections; what do you think they’ll do to one of us—”

“My point exactly! You’ll never make it to him, and once we’re out, we can—”

“Cobb won’t leave without the information! You know the only reason he’s doing this is because of Saito. Even if we give him the kick up top, he’ll just try again, and the projections will be on him that much faster the next time around.”

“I don't care if it's a favor for Saito or not. Nothing's worth this!” The sound of screaming nearby only emphasized his point. "We can't stay here!"

Arthur let out a short breath. "You're right, Eames. We can't." There wasn't any change in the inflection of his voice, but Eames was turning his gun towards Arthur even before he finished speaking. He was still too late.

Arthur's shot went wild as an explosion in the street next to them caused them both to stagger. Eames' shot, however, found its mark.

"Bloody hell." He turned away from the body on the ground, unable to look at the unnatural sprawl of his limbs or the way the blood made a small circle around him. His hands were mostly steady when he lifted the gun to his own head, and he closed his eyes, more habit than because he needed to by then. Flashes of all the carnage he'd witnessed, of Arthur lying behind him and Cobb with his two children made his knuckles turn white around the handle. If they caught Cobb, they would torture him first. And it didn't matter that it was only a dream. Pain was just as real either way.

"Fuck!"

He ran out the room, cursing Arthur and Cobb and most especially himself with every step.

It was clear from how Arthur started yelling at him as soon as he opened his eyes that Arthur was less than pleased, regardless of the fact that he'd brought Cobb with him (was it too much to ask for a "thank you" or "Eames, you're my hero?"). "What the _hell_ were you thinking?" he demanded, eyes wild and hands bunched into fists. It made Eames wonder how many times Arthur had gone back and forth between waking them or letting them come out of the dream on their own.

"May I remind you that you turned your gun on me first," he said, trying to keep his temper in check but mostly failing. At least Cobb knew when to keep quiet, not saying a word as he took the IV out of his arm.

"We didn't have time to argue, and you said—"

"You don't get to send me out of the room like a child when my decisions don't match up to yours," he said, rising out of his chair, anger making his voice harsh.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Arthur asked, refusing to back down, even when Eames came to stand right in front of him. "There wasn't time—"

"Then you should have damn well left me there instead of—"

"I wasn't going to leave you _alone_." Arthur looked at him like he was barking mad, like he couldn't believe Eames would even consider the idea, and that actually made him angrier, because—

"Why the fuck not? You expected me to let _you_ go after—"

"It's not the same thing!" Arthur protested.

"It's _exactly_ the same bloody thing, and you don't get to—"

"I take care of the people I—" He flinched, his face going blank.

Eames blinked, blinked again and felt limp, like with all his rage gone, he was empty and floundering to get his bearings. He waited for surprise to take its place, because Arthur's expression revealed more than the words he had or hadn’t said, and they'd never talked about it, neither of them even hinting that it was anything more than casual.

But it never came. And Eames realized he knew, had already known for some time.

"So do I," he said, reaching out slowly in order to give Arthur the time to move away if he wanted to. But he didn’t, stood there and looked at Eames like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that everything was out in the open. "So do I."

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to suddenlyswept for beta’ing. *blows kisses* Also, yay, I wrote actual fic. It’s like a miracle. Also thanks to caitri for answering my burning last minute questions, lol. *hugs*
> 
> ETA: There is now a Chinese translation by Capt.Beefheart! \o/ It can be found [here](http://mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=76746&page=1&extra=#pid1334880). FYI, you must register to access the site.


End file.
